


STEVE ROGERS VS. THE WORLD

by nightcap



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Scott Pilgrim - All Media Types, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010)
Genre: ALT-ROCK TEENS, Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - High School, Battle of the Bands, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, F/M, Gen, INDIE TEENS, Instant Messaging, M/M, Memory Loss, Screenplay/Script Format, Teens, sometimes anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcap/pseuds/nightcap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Do you?” asks Natasha. “Do you want to? Follow him, I mean.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I think I do,” says Steve.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Natasha tilts her head, this time at Bucky, who’s walking away, blurred a little at the edges by the rain. Steve stands up and looks at his two friends, water starting to drip from the ends of Natasha’s hair, Sam giving him a half-smile.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, slowly.</i>
</p><p>In which Steve Rogers is in a mediocre Band, hangs out with his two best friends, goes on a musical Journey as a budding Indie Teen, is messed up by a major record label executive/producer/bigshot, finds a bitter rival in Winter's Army, an intimidating band that is actually Talented, and solves the mystery of Bucky Barnes, also known as a face from the Past, also known as the Winter Solo, also known as the drummer of the aforementioned bitter rival band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	STEVE ROGERS VS. THE WORLD

**Author's Note:**

> alternately titled:
> 
> “we could try to live right, follow the moment”
> 
> "steve’s song (oh, my, my, my)”
> 
> "all those other girls are beautiful but would they write a song for you"
> 
> this started when i was looking for books to re-read, and came upon The Disenchantments by Nina LeCour, which is a very Angst-Filled Musical Teenage Journey through such things as unrequited Love and Bands of which the title band, the disenchantments, is a group where none of the members were very talented but were all very attractive, and i was like, huh, steve rogers, band, BOOM, and then i was dicking around twitter and google chat and this. happened.
> 
> this is for [sam](http://twitter.com/preteenwolf/), who came up with it basically and also for [emma](http://gwenstacys.tumblr.com/), and also for [CAROLINE](http://kctiebishop.tumblr.com/), who was, sadly, not there for me to berate and generally Annoy with random ideas, but whom i love VERY MUCH. I HOPE WISCONSIN WAS FUN.
> 
> i also drew a inspiration from the scott pilgrim vs. the world script, which is a literal Work of Genius, i am so happy with that movie it was everything i ever wish it could be, and also from a lot of songs, and also that one gifset of the winter solo, which i have put in the END NOTES.

 

Stephen... you know how, when a baby is first born, it just _cries_ at the sheer horror of being alive?

\- _Scott Pilgrim and the Infinite Sadness_

 

**LEVEL ONE**

**In which there is a battle of the bands, and we meet our Protagonists**

The thing about the Patriot Rogue is that it’s never been a particularly _good_ band. From the time it was born out of the dank, dark ages of sophomore year of high school, the lineup wasn’t especially talented: there was Steve Rogers, (cheerful) brooding artist and lead singer, Sam Wilson, lead guitarist, and Natasha Romanoff, drummer. People came to their shows either for the pure ironic disenchantment oozing from their lyrics (I loved you / please don’t go / please don’t walk out that door! [Cue 15 minute drum solo from Natasha]) or for the sort of attractive quality of Steve’s tall/blondeness, Sam’s jumping on the stage, and Natasha’s rapid head-bashing. All together, they were a good picture: young, beautiful, almost passably musical.

“Oh God,” says Steve, rubbing at his hair nervously. “We’re screwed, we’re so _screwed_. Why did you sign us _up_ –” The last part is directed at no one in particular, probably because Steve was the one that filled out the form and slipped it in the manila folder taped to the front office door.

“Who are we battling?” asks Sam, from his perch on the back of the couch. They’re in the music room, which is linked to the school cafeteria by a slide-away wall. They could’ve performed in the auditorium, but that was, well. Not ironic enough.

“The Going Commandos,” says Natasha, examining her nails.

“That band where they’re _going_ and _commando_?” says Sam, raising his eyebrows and letting out a low whistle. “Man.”

“They’re like, actually good,” says Steve, flipping through a carefully-drawn marker stats table of the opposing band way too fast. “They have that song with the French solo in the middle, and the verbal grenades, and –” He pulls at the ends of his hair (shaggy) and hums a few bars. It sounds distinctly off-tune.

“Aww,” says Natasha, corners of her mouth twitching. “People might find out we _suck_.”

“We don’t _suck_ ,” says Sam. “We’re going to win this. We’re going to win this, and we’re going to impress the A-Man, by the way, because he’s _totally_ in the audience, and –”

“Who’s the A-Man?” asks Steve.

“Only indie record producer of the _millennium,_ ” says Natasha. Steve rubs at his hair. It’s kind of a complete Mess at this point.

“Your hair’s getting shaggy,” says Natasha.

A roar comes through the slide-away wall, which shakes on its rollers a bit. Steve peeks through the crack where it doesn’t quite touch the edge of the room. The Commandos have taken the stage – Gabe Jones (lead singer, totally, completely in love with a freshman, bad move) is doing some complicated vocal thing into the mic. Jack Dernier (exchange student that never left, long story) is mouthing something, probably French, and winking at some girl sitting at one of the cafeteria tables. Timothy Dugan (drummer, facial-haired, pubescent back in like, second grade) is playing the drums, and definitely, totally, showing off.

“Oh, man,” says Steve, kind of loudly, as the Commandos have just kicked into their first set, which involves a 0.07-second song called “We’re Storming the Base, Hide the Girls”, containing the sole, heartfelt lyric “We’re storming the base, hide the girls,” accompanied by Jack Dernier stomping hard on the stage and Gabe Jones wrapping both his legs completely around the microphone stand. “Oh, man. They’re good, aren’t they. They’re good?”

“They’re good,” confirms Sam.

“How are we going to follow this act?” asks Steve, repeatedly thumping his head on the wall.

“With your earnest wailing and my drums,” says Natasha. She brightens suddenly. “Guess what, I named them yesterday.”

“What?” asks Sam.

“I named them yesterday,” repeats Natasha. “My drums.”

“Named them what?” repeats Sam.

“Sam,” says Natasha, looking pleased with herself. “But, like, a Sam cooler than you. Like, a Cool Sam.”

“Oh,” says Sam, turning his head back around. “Okay.”

“Okay,” says Steve, under his breath. His face is half-drained of blood at this point. “This is a battle of the bands. We are going to _battle_ the _bands_.”

“The next act,” says a bored voice through the wall, “The Patriot Rogue. Let me check – yeah, that’s singular. Here we go.”

“Here we go,” says Steve under his breath, rolling his shoulders back. “Here we go.”

They gather their various instruments, water bottles, big dreams of record label deals, etcetera, etcetera, and then. They are on the stage.

Steve mumbles something about freedom, which is cut off by Natasha banging her drumsticks above her head.

“WE ARE THE PATRIOT ROGUE! AND WE’RE HERE TO ROCK THIS SHITTY SCHOOL FACILITY AND FREE YOUR SOUL AND STUFF! ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!”

And they play.

***

The second thing about the Patriot Rogue is that it’s ridiculously well-performing at battle of the bands competitions, considering the, um, lack of talent, and also the near comatose state Steve always goes into fifteen minutes before getting on stage, without fail.

“Hey,” says Sam, wiping off some sweat on his guitar strap (ineffective). “We totally kicked it in there.”

“We totally did,” agrees Steve, who looks like he’s having trouble walking. He leans momentarily on Natasha for support. “We _tooo_ tally did.”

“And Kristen was _tooo_ tally looking at you,” says Natasha, catching Steve’s eye. “Like _that._ ” She snaps her fingers.

”Kristen from Stats?” asks Steve, frowning at how Natasha somehow said “totally” the exact same way he said it, with the same number of o’s and italicization and everything. “She was there? Do you think she likes me?”

“She definitely wants to lick this,” says Natasha, poking his arm, which, well, does have slightly more definition than last year. “I don’t think _Sif_ would mind licking this.”

“Oh my God,” says Sam dreamily, “ _Sif_.” He kind of grew a crush on her like, a month ago, after an entire middle school career spent pining over Natasha, who he’s since realized is, like. _Natasha_. Apparently he has a thing for girls that have the capacity to use smiles as intimidation tactics.

“Huh, okay,” says Steve. “What I was _saying_ was that we did pretty well. I think Jim Morita peed his pants.”

“Are you sure that wasn’t you,” says Sam. They reach the end of the hallway, turn, and head toward the double doors that lead to the parking lot. “I’m, like, 42% sure that was you.”

“Mm,” says Natasha, checking her watch. “Okay. Here’s the situation: I need to go get ready for judo in, like, twenty, so we’ve got… some time. Yeah, we’ve got time. Smoothies?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Sam, trying to give Natasha a high five, failing, and settling for patting himself on the shoulder.

“Definitely,” says Steve, pushing through the double doors. He blinks at the sun. “I just need to put this stuff in the car, then…” he trails off, because Natasha’s stopped, suddenly.

“Oh, no,” she says, shuffling her stuff a bit around, putting her hand bag on the pavement. “Like so, totally, _no_.”

“What,” says Steve.

“Uh,” says Sam.

There’s an opaque blur of movement in the corner of Steve’s eye. He turns to the left, where the rippling air above the asphalt is conveniently completely masking some black-clad person. The soundtrack music gets DARK.

“Oh, man,” says Steve, squinting ahead. “Look.”

Natasha cringes. Sam tries to look, but ends up squinting also, because the air is suddenly filled with smoke. There’s a shadowy figure walking purposefully through it, toward them –

“Hey,” says the shadowy figure, stopping once it’s about two feet away. “Hey, Steve. Sam, Natasha.” He nods at them. “Heard you guys playing.”

“Brock,” acknowledges Steve. “Yeah.”

“We won,” adds Sam, defensively, for, like, no apparent reason.

“I figured,” says Brock. “Yeah, I’m just setting up. My band is next, y’know? We’ve been signed by this _sick_ sick dude named Alexander. I’ve brought my guitar and stuff. It’s my dad’s.”

“Uh, okay,” says Sam, “Like we needed to know –”

Natasha’s hand appears out of nowhere and covers his mouth.

“Hey, good luck,” she says.

“What she said,” adds Steve, nodding again, politely. “Best to you and the band.”

“Thanks, buddy,” says Brock, smiling crookedly. “Hope we win!”

***

“Okay,” says Sam, once they’re in the local Tropical Smoothie and he’s slugged down half of his Sunny Day in one go, “that was really creepy. That was so creepy. Like we need to know about his husband Alexander or whatever.”

“I thought it was nice of him,” says Steve, “to congratulate us and everything. It was a very cool thing to do.”

“Did he? I don’t think he did,” says Sam, the same time Natasha says:

“Steve. Steve - you're the one that said Loki was an, and I quote, 'semi-okay guy'.”

“One, I did not say that, and two, Rumlow’s nice,” says Steve, indignantly. “We were total buds back in middle school. Didn't know he was in a band, though. Thought he was busy with, like, football and stuff.”

“Lacrosse,” says Sam, face darkening.

“Right,” says Steve. “Anyway, sports stuff. That doesn't leave a lot of room for extracurricular activities.”

“Lacrosse _is_ an extracurricular activity,” says Sam.

“So’s being in a band,” points out Steve. “Which, by the way, what’s he in, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” shrugs Natasha. “The Strategic Homeland Interventions, I think.”

“Is that even a real band,” says Sam.

A pause.

“We’re all stories,” says Natasha. “None of us are real in the end.”

 

**In which an Enemy appears, and our Protagonists fear for the Future**

“What,” says Sam, looking up at the header. “Great.”

 

INT. MUSIC ROOM, SCHOOL, NIGHT

“Alright,” says Steve, swallowing. “We have a problem.”

“It’s, like, five minutes ‘til curtains up –”

“– Someone took our amp.”

“Kill me,” says Sam, cheerfully. “Like anyone wants that piece of crap.”

“Well,” says Steve, “somebody did. It’s gone.”

“Boys,” says Natasha, from the back of the room. “You do realize this is an amp vs. amp competition? Like, amps. Amp vs. amp? We can’t perform _without_ one.”

“Ah,” Steve says faintly. “Yes.”

“Okay,” says Natasha, seeing the look on his face, “That’s okay. We’re fine, guys. Look – do you know who we’re playing?”

“Winter’s Army,” says Sam, a bead of sweat steadily rolling down the right side of his face.

“Oh,” says Natasha. “In that case? That’s not okay. We're not fine. We’re probably going to lose.”

“ _Why_ ,” says Steve, rubbing at the side of his head. Natasha sighs, closes her eyes, and sets her drumsticks down on her lap.

“Their guitar riffs are fast, their beats are sick, and they’ve got a drummer with a metal arm,” she says. “No one’s sure who the members are. There are theories – the drummer, for one, has been around for _far_ too long. The whole band has more than dozens of confirmed wins in the past year alone.”

“How is that possible,” whispers Steve.

"It isn't," says Sam.

“I guess we’ll find out who the members are tonight,” says Natasha. “When we lose, on account of our having no amp. In the amp vs. amp. Where we have no amp. Ready?”

“I’ll guess I’ll go acoustic,” says Sam, who is slightly muffled by the closet he’s digging through. “Here, got it. Natasha.”

“What,” says Natasha, turning her head to look at him.

“That’s what I named my guitar,” says Sam seriously. “But, like, a cool Natasha. I named it Cool Natasha.”

 

INT. STAGE, CAFETERIA, SCHOOL, STILL NIGHT

_WE OPEN… with the sound of the roars of a crowd. The screen is black. SUDDENLY the lights snap on. The roar of the crowd gets even louder. The soundstage studio we’re in is obviously not a cafeteria, but nobody seems to notice that._

 

STEVE

(awed)

Wow.

 

The camera CUTS to WINTER’S ARMY, the RIVAL BAND. Their faces are all hidden by STRATEGICALLY-PLACE D shadows. Another STRATEGICALLY-PLACED light glints off the drummer’s metal arm. Very soft ALT-CANADIAN-ROCK-POP thrums under the cheering. Cut to a poster on the wall:

**_THE PATRIOT ROGUE!! WINTER’S ARMY!!! AMP VERSUS AMP!!!! TWO BANDS ENTER!!!!!! ONE BAND LEAVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ **

 

NATASHA

(yelling)

What are we playing?

 

STEVE yells something back. It sounds like mumbling. NATASHA assumes he means the first (and only) song on their EP, “When An Eagle Lands on Your Heart (It’s Pretty Cool)”.

 

SAM

(under his breath)

When do we start?

 

STEVE

(could be SAM’s imagination)

We just did.

 

Apparently, so did WINTER’S ARMY. They are now hurtling into their first song, a kinetic, metallic bundle of twisted nerves and fantastically slick beats. NATASHA was _too right._ The spotlight accidentally shines on the drummer’s face for a second, long enough for STEVE and NATASHA to notice the black mask covering his NOSE and MOUTH.

 

** (V.O.) **

** “AND THEN. IT WAS TIME… FOR THE SWEET SOUND OF WINTER’S ARMY TO MEET THE EARS OF THE AUDIENCE OF WILLIAM C. SHIELD HIGH SCHOOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” **

Black Sheep, by the Metric.

SAM

(dryly)

That sentence needs more exclamation marks.

 

NATASHA

Oh, my God –

 

NATASHA is cut off in the middle of what was probably a sentence (or, more likely, just an exclamation) by the PURE FORCE of the musical prodigy of WINTER’S ARMY. Fast guitar riffs hit NATASHA in the stomach. Sick beats graze STEVE’s cheekbone. The LEAD SINGER brings the microphone to his mouth, spotlight clicking open on his face.

 

STEVE

...Oh.

 

SAM

(inaudibly)

I _told_ you. The _asshole_.

 

BROCK RUMLOW

(the LEAD SINGER)

Hello again, friend of a friend -

 

STEVE

(inaudibly)

I really don’t –

 

BROCK

\- I knew you well-ELL

 

SAM

(inaudibly)

This is good stuff. I think I’m going to –

 

NATASHA

(somehow incredibly audibly)

We’re _so_ going to lose.

 

STEVE looks forlornly at the crowd. He’s like 82% sure that if JULIUS CAESAR or NAPOLEON was an ALT-ROCK TEEN, his army would totally look like this. He’s also like 36% sure that he now hates BROCK RUMLOW with a burning passion. What a dick.

 

NATASHA

I have a theory.

 

**In which Natasha has a Theory, and Things finally start Happening**

“I have a theory,” shouts Natasha, trying to aim her words over the music. “Steve?”

“Me too. One,” says Steve, making his way around to the drums, “I hate Brock Rumlow. Two, the drummer. He’s fast, Natasha. Strong. Got a metal arm.”

“That’s where my theory comes in,” says Natasha, her mouth set into a grim line. “I think it’s – Well. They call him the Winter Solo. They say that no one has ever beat his manual dexterity and complex rhythms and pure, raw talent.”

“The Winter Solo,” says Sam incredulously, popping out behind Steve’s shoulder. “That’s ridiculous.”

“He reminds me of someone,” says Steve. “Also: he looks like a jerk. You know what I think? I think… Let’s blow this joint.”

“…Are you talking about drugs?” asks Sam.

“No, I mean – Like. Blow this joint. Like this place? Is the joint. And we’re going to –”

“What,” says Sam.

“I mean: let’s win this, Sam,” says Steve, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s win this.

 

CHOOSE YOUR TEAM!

The Patriot Rogue

1\. Steven Grant Rogers

  * Tall
  * ~~Nice~~ Kind
  * Works out sometimes
  * Pretty good pitch



2\. Samuel Wilson

  * Funny
  * Can jump really high
  * Bird club
  * Plays the guitar



3\. Natasha _________ Romanoff

  * “The Talent”
  * Rated ‘R’ for Romanoff
  * Really good hair
  * Like, super smart



Winter’s Army

1\. Brock Rumlow

  * Plays football/lacrosse/?
  * Beefy
  * Can sing really well
  * Dick



2\. Winter Solo (???) (are you serious)

  * Really good at drums
  * Fast
  * Strong
  * Sick, complex rhythms
  * Metal arm
  * Two (2) more bulleted lines than everyone else



3\. Alexander (?)

  * Record label guy (?)



 

“We have one more member,” says Steve, looking at the list they’ve just put together. “Also, we’re way nicer.”

“Our band name sounds like something from Pacific Rim,” says Natasha, dryly.

“ _Winter Solo_ ,” says Sam.

***

A final jarring note is let loose from the Winter Solo’s guitar. It hits Natasha in the head. She falls off her stool.

“That really does sting,” she says softly, rubbing at her scalp.

“Oh my God,” whispers Steve, crouching beside her. “He knocked the curls out of her hair.”

***

 **stevester** : nat, we need to talk.

Sent at 12:43 AM on Thursday

 **legally_ginger** : mmhm

falconexcess has been added to the chat!

 **falconexcess** : hey

 **stevester** : we have to do something about this.

 **stevester** : they’re really strong

 **stevester** : how do we stop them

 **falconexcess** : why aren’t they working as professional hair stylists

 **falconexcess** : they can straighten hair w/ _music_

 **legally_ginger** : i was actually thinking about straightening my hair already ;)

 **falconexcess** : u looked nice w/ it! it’s like

 **falconexcess** :a good change

_legally_ginger is typing…_

**falconexcess** : except it was kinda hard 2 tell because u were unconscious

 **legally_ginger** : thanks

 **stevester** : ok. HOW DO WE STOP THEM

 **stevester** : you do look really nice though, nat

 **legally_ginger** : :)

 **stevester** : WE DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO THE DRUMMER IS

 **legally_ginger** : ABOUT THAT, 1 sec

 **legally_ginger** : okay: apparently they’re signed to a record label

_legally_ginger is typing…_

**falconexcess** : like, a legit record label?

 **falconexcess** : the alexander dude, right

 **legally_ginger** : yeah. hydra records

 **legally_ginger** : famous for soul-sucking contracts and paying reviewers

 **stevester** : that doesn’t sound legal

 **falconexcess** : because it isn’t, m guessing

 **legally_ginger** : found the official band page, too

 **stevester** : are bands with record labels and stuff like

 **stevester** : allowed to battle high school bands

 **legally_ginger** : they don’t even have member profiles

 **legally_ginger** : we need 2 find more info stat

 **stevester** : on it

 **falconexcess** : when do we

_falconexcess is typing…_

**stevester** : right now.

_Chat ended._

***

**LEVEL TWO**

**In which things are finally Happening, and our Protagonists begin an investigation**

INT. MAIN OFFICE, WILLIAM C. SHIELD HIGH SCHOOL, DAY

INVESTIGATION PART I: ILL-ADVISED COMPUTER STUFF

Steve: Alright. So what I was thinking – you’re good with computer stuff, right? I can be the lookout, or like, guard the door, or –

Sam: Whatever you say, man. I’ve got this.

Steve: Yeah, I know. Okay. So if you can get onto the county mainframe –

Sam: Faculty username, password. I’ve _got this_. It’s cool, Steve. Seriously. Mr. Coulson is _so_ lax with logging in. He does it, like, on the overhead…

Steve:

Steve: Right. Okay. Good.

***

_The camera pans to the right. We are in what appears to be a cave with something running wetly down the sides. It is hard for us to see, because of the darkness and murkiness and so on. Someone flips a light switch – the light is a chandelier. The something-running-wetly-down-the-sides is a miniature waterfall, sparkling prettily. This is not a cave: this is a lavish modern office._

_“Oh, hello,” says an old white man with a surprised-to-see-you voice, turning around from where he was checking his reflection in the side of a platinum-plated toaster. “Didn’t expect you back so soon, Han.” He chuckles at his little joke._

_The Winter Solo is sitting stonily on the giraffe-pelt sofa in the corner, chandelier light strategically falling so that the only thing visible is his eyes, framed by a bright rectangle. His features are set so that we are a little afraid of whether he will kill the old white man or not._

_“Would you like some milk and cookies?” asks the old white man. He takes a gallon of milk from his Sub-Zero fridge and pours, like, five millimeters into a cut-crystal glass. There are no cookies. Look around. There have never been any cookies here._

_“The Patriot Rogue,” says the Winter Solo. “They are a threat.”_

_“Oh,” says the old white man, a little sadly. He widens his eyes (the effect is enhanced by the milk glass he is drinking from, which magnifies his face to bulbous proportions). “I suppose we will have to fix that.”_

***

INVESTIGATION PART II: STEVE ROGERS CRASHES A PARTY

Steve runs into the Odinson estate (the Odinson brothers are famous for their parties: a classic case of dad-never-being-around and mom-chill-enough-to-allow-her-children-to-literally-do-anything), coattails flapping, hair billowing in the wind, ignoring the crowds of people standing around with red plastic cups/suspicious-looking Ziplocs/entire jugs of Canada Dry. After a bit of peeking around and such, he slows down and walks from room to room, catching his breath and also bumping into a lot of teenage limbs.

“Loki, hey,” he says, sort of cautiously, when he finally bumps into the right teenage limb. “Do you know the one guy with hair like this?”

“What’s it to you,” says Loki (rated ‘R’ for rakish, knows everything), with a sneer on his face. It should be mentioned that he is a dick. Steve opens his mouth to say something, but we never find out what it is, because Loki continues talking, as usual.

“The Winter Solo,” he says, eyes glinting. “Prodigious drummer since seventh grade. Hasn’t washed his hair since then. Makes the girls go _wild_.”

“Thank you,” says Steve genuinely.

The lights drop ominously.

“He hasn’t washed his hair since seventh grade,” hisses Loki, like a warning. “ _He hasn’t washed his hair since seventh grade_.”

“Uh, okay,” says Steve. “Thank you.”

**

“Tony,”greets Steve, after finding him at the punch table, a fixture of clichéd high school parties where the guests are Cool Teens and the Cool Teens play games such as Seven Minutes in Hell.

“Steve,” says Tony Stark (rated ‘T’ for Teen Tony, totally obnoxious, doesn’t know as many things as Loki but has more means of finding them out). “Ste-e-eve Rogers. Can I help you?”

Steve takes this moment to notice that there is a girl standing next to Tony, a kind of annoyed-looking almost-redhead (bad skin, smelling strongly of sweet pea hand sanitizer from the Bath and Body Works) with a blue dress on. She’s holding at least three olives. They’re dripping green juice between her fingers.

“Tony,” says Steve, again. “Tell me about the Winter Solo.”

Tony takes a sip of his non-alcoholic fruit punch. There is a short silence. It’s ended by Tony, as usual.

“He used to be… a pillar of virtue,” he says. “A paragon of honest indie cred. Ideals, if you may.”

“And then?”

“He sold out,” says Tony, crushing his cup in his hand. “Nobody knows why.”

***

INT. **THIRD** BATTLE OF THE BANDS, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, PROBABLY NIGHT

“Nothing turned up?” asks Natasha, carefully unsticking the Velcro of a drum cover.

“I wouldn’t say _nothing_ ,” says Sam, raising his eyebrows at her. “For example. I looked through your file a bit? There was – a lot of stuff in there – Straight A’s, Russian club – Perfect attendance, five years in a row? I think – We could. This is it – You’re what I’ve been looking for. Let’s get _hitched_ , Nat. Married. Tie the knot, so to speak.”

“No,” says Natasha. “I am one, young, two, attractive, and three, not getting tied down to the president of the birdwatcher’s club.”

“Co-president,” corrects Sam.

“I asked around,” offers Steve, the customary Steve Trench appearing between in his forehead (World War I was fought between his eyebrows, Sam thinks offhandedly). “Didn’t learn much.”

“He’s a ghost,” says Natasha matter-of-factly. “You’ll never find him.”

***

**District Battle of the Bands, Third Round: Patriot Rogue v. Winter’s Army, August.**

Transcript by Virginia “Pepper” Potts, Shield Bugle, Chief Editorial Staff Editor-in-Chief/Reporter/President/‘Pretty Good Writer’/Only One Who Cares

7:02 PM

The two bands have taken the stage, and the room is, suitably, abuzz with anticipation. There are three platforms: two on either side and a smaller one in the middle. The floor is filled with precocious teenagers wearing black T-shirts, ripped jeans, faux-metal necklaces, etc. I am sitting at one side, blocked off by a teetering divide of cardboard boxes, so that I have taken a sort of referee-like position, with a good view of both acts. All I have are my favorite hoodie, laptop, and fingers, typing like the wind.

Mr. Stane: [chuckling] My, that girl does type like the wind.

Pepper: She does, thank you.

Both bands are now tuning their instruments. From the left, there are fine, mechanical noises, precise, intentional turnings of knobs, wires, etc. From the right, there is a general jangly mess of chords and noises falling over one another. A loud crash, again from the right. There is a girl staring angrily/fondly at a boy with wings printed on the back of his sweatshirt. This is the Patriot Rogue. The other band is Winter’s Army. We will see how this turns out.

Oh, gah. A horrible screeching from the left, sort of like someone screaming across an abyss, a war-torn veteran dying in the middle of an expanse of frozen battlefield, a brainwashed assassin’s theme song, etc. The source of all the racket is the straggly emo-type drummer’s bass drum. The lead singer (dickish crew cut, muscly shoulders) slaps the drummer on the forearm, a friendly grin on his face. Straggly emo-type flinches. I suppose they are horsing around in a stupid fashion, much like boys are wont to do.

Tony Stark (designated announcer, obnoxious, loves hearing himself talk, also this writer’s AP chem partner, which is, well, _terrible_ , on so many levels, he absolutely ruins that class for me): Ladies, gentlemen, attractive young women. And men. Welcome. This is the, ah, third district Battle of the Bands, and it’s… Winter’s Army versus the Patriot Rogue. Two _very_ talented contenders, though arguably – Ahem. Well wishes, best of luck, etcetera. One of you will win, one of you will end up lying in a pathetic puddle of defeat, or whatever. Off you go.

Tony hops off the center platform he was standing on. He is walking towards my little closed off area. Fantastic. I am _so_ glad.

Pepper: Fantastic. I am _so_ glad.

Tony: Hey, Sergeant. How’s things? Do you have the numbers?

Pepper: Only for you, Mr. Stark.

I hand him the data for our latest lab report (we have a sort of arrangement where we alternate on data collection and putting together the actual lab report, it’s my week for data collection), which he has referred to _so_ charmingly as the ‘numbers’.

Tony: And you, Miss Potts. You truly deliver.

He takes a seat on the plastic-backed chair next to mine. Ah, great. Whatever. It’s not like I _care_.

Just on time, the customary vague typography puffs into the air above us.

“ONE ON ONE!!!!!!” It reads. “INSTRUMENT VS. INSTRUMENT!!!!!!!! COMPLETE AND TOTAL DELIVERANCE!!!!”

Tony: Hey, Obie. (you don’t call teachers by their first names, you don’t _shorten_ their first names, that’s _disrespectful_ , who do you think you are)

Mr. Stane (jovially): Hey, Tony!

Someone on the right stage is saying something. It’s the sort of skinny, gangly blonde one, flushed in the face and ripping some pages out of a notebook. The sweatshirt-wings kid next to him pats him on the back. Natasha (the only member of the band I know personally, we go out for green tea on Fridays) looks calmly out from her seat behind the drums.

As a direct contrast, no one on the left stage is saying anything. The two band members are silent, especially the drummer, whose eyes are empty. Brock, also silent, looks more like he just doesn’t have much to say, probably because he is a Meathead Jock.

Tony: He is _totally_ a Meathead Jock. I, however, am a healthy mix of both intelligent AND strong.

He flexes. The secondhand embarrassment forming in my stomach sends some bile into the back of my throat. STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER, STARK.

Tony: I am not reading over your shoulder.

Thank God, the two bands have finally started playing… or one member from each is, anyway. The “one on one” band battle involves the lead singer from one band playing directly against the lead singer in the other band, the guitarist from one band against the guitarist in the other band, and so on. Currently, we are in the stage of lead singer v. lead singer.

Patriot Rogue: You’re signed to a record label / how I wish this was a fable

Winter’s Army: You’re frail we could break you really / don’t take this so personally

Patriot Rogue: I know this doesn’t rhyme but / this feels, like, really personal

Winter’s Army: This ain’t a reprieve / get over it Steve

(I’m going to take a slight break from the transcript to say that Tony looks really amused. Like, really amused. I’m afraid he’s going to start choking. Wait a second –

Okay, he’s fine.

Tony: [laughing instead of breathing, not a suitable substitute] They’re taking themselves so – seriously –

Like you _don’t,_ Tony –)

Patriot Rogue:

Winter’s Army: Don’t be bummed / you’re a _zero sum_

Pepper (offhandedly): Natasha’s hair looks really nice. Did she straighten it?

Tony (dreamily?): M _m_.

“ROUND TWO: GUITARIST VS. GUITARIST. ARE YOU STRUNG TIGHT ENOUGH?????”

Pepper: Is that supposed to mean something?

Tony (still ogling Natasha): It’s a play on words. Like, guitar strings, are you _strung_ tight enough…

Pepper: …Thanks.

(Like I didn’t _know_ that.)

Tony: [smiles enigmatically, or what he probably assumes is an enigmatic fashion, so basically, smugly]

Anyway. Round two. Guitarist vs. guitarist. Since Brock Rumlow is both lead singer and lead/only guitarist, he is taking part in the guitarist battle as well, against the guy in the winged-sweatshirt. Spotlights snap on over their heads. The microphone picks up some of what the Patriot Rogue is discussing.

Lead singer: I think I lost.

Natasha: You were fine, Steve (Sleeve? Leave?). Hey, Sam, strategy?

Lead guitarist (presumably Sam, he is the one that answers): I was just going to see how long I can hold my D (B?) chord.

Brock starts playing.

Tony: Do you think Steve drank the vodka I gave him beforehand? I think it could really help him, to, like, loosen up once in a while –

Pepper: _Vodka_?

Tony: Yeah. It’s disgusting. Want some? By the way, are you supposed to be typing all this up? I thought you were just assigned to the band stuff.

Pepper: I’m – it’s for _accuracy_ –

Sam starts playing. He is not only using his D chord but also many other chords: the G chord, C chord, F chord, and so on. Actually, scratch that. I’m not entirely sure those are all chords. I’m… less musically-inclined. Hence the data collection.

Tony is laughing. God, please, can someone just come over and – distract him, or –

Oh. He’s touching my face, rather awkwardly. Wait a second and let me see what he

Um, wow. Okay. That’s – I may be gone for a bit...

_Transcript ended, 9:23 PM_

***

**In which our Protagonists and sort-of but-not-really Antagonists give and receive several Letters (both imaginary and Not)**

Dear Steve Rogers,

We have received your application. It is currently awaiting approval in the recesses of our extrapolation database. It seems – well – we are having several problems with your request – you are not quite the saint people have made you out to be, for starters. Of course, we are not only considering your set of not-so-finely honed friendship skills: we are also considering your _character_ , and what you might do in shall we say… _problematic_ situations.

So that you can fully understand the number of issues we have with your pending application, here is a list for your reading and comprehension:

a) You haven’t had a ‘real’ best friend since sixth grade.

b) Upon hearing that your ‘real’ best friend was in a different middle school district, you immediately ceased contact with him.

c) Your two current friends/band members/teammates are fine students and reasonably upstanding citizens, sure, but, see:

d) You haven’t been fully honest with them, have you.

For these reasons, we are forced to put your application **on hold** for the time being. We sincerely hope you resolve these issues soon so that we can accept you as a member.

Thank you,

The Best Friendship Administration Club, Management

 

Dear Winter Solo,

We will have to penalize you for the mistake you made with the drums twenty minutes and forty-three seconds ago. Extremely sorry. Do not forget your previous obligations and also to deal with the **neutralization of the threat** ~!

Best of luck!

Alex Pierce, Representative

 

Dearest Natasha,

where is my guitar.

– Sam

 

Sam,

no idea, sorry.

– Nat

 

(g)Nat,

thnx.

– Sam

p.s. you will never be as cool as cool natasha. go ahead and try.

p.p.s. the G i put in front of your name turns it into GNAT, which is a BUG.

 

Dear Steve Rogers,

This letter is to inform you of the fifteen second countdown that is to begin NOW.

Cheers,

The Bureau of Sudden, Life-Changing, Sometimes Life-Ruining Events

***

Exactly three point two five five seven seconds before the countdown to the Event that will most likely Change Steve Rogers’s Life, Sam is well into nursing a rather hurt grudge towards Natasha. It makes sense, kind of: he found his acoustic guitar missing two minutes before curtains up, he still has a residue but raging crush on her from third grade, and, also, his band is so, totally, losing.

“Our band is so, totally, losing,” says the normally optimistic Sam, with an almost – say – _watery_ undertone to his voice.

“Mm,” says Natasha, distractedly, dislodging another thin paper note from where it’s tucked under her cymbal. She ignores the angry writing scribbled it.

Steve straightens up and sends a well-aimed lyric, low and deep right across the room. It hits the center of the Winter Solo’s bass drum. The reverb causes Solo to lose his balance for a second, and then –

And then – it happens –

 **“Jesus. Christ. What.”** Steve says, with, like, at least three punctuation, then something else directly afterwards, quieter: “ _Bucky?_ ”

Sam and Natasha, alarmed, turn their heads to Steve. He’s looking at the stage, so they turn to follow his line of sight instead. His gaze lands on… the opposing stage, where the Winter Solo has stopped drumming, because… his mask has fallen off, to reveal (more ellipses, and also)…

Steve is silent. Bucky is silent. Natasha is silent. It seems like the entire indie-teen audience is silent, for a second. The only noise comes from the side, behind a crooked wall of cardboard boxes: like two seals fighting over a grape, maybe.

“Who the hell is Bucky,” says the Winter Solo blankly, and everything. Is happening. **So much.**

***

 **falconexcess** : steve?

Sent at 11:03 PM on Friday

 **falconexcess** : steeeeve.

 **legally_ginger** : steve… you ok?

 **falconexcess** :we can see you online, steve.

Sent at 3:06 AM on Saturday

_Chat ended._

 

_legally_ginger has joined the chat!_

**legally_ginger** : steve. what’s wrong

Sent at 9:07 PM on Saturday

 **stevester** : hey, nat! i’m just listening to ramona by beck on repeat. It’s a really good song, natasha. have you heard it?

**At this point, we suggest you begin listening to this song as well.

 **legally_ginger** : i bought u that album, steve

 **stevester** : you in bed, nat?

 **legally_ginger** : yeah

 **stevester** : this is a really, really good song

 **stevester** : i think i’m, like, legitimately. in love

 **legally_ginger** : mmhm

 **stevester** : with this song

 **legally_ginger** : steve.

 **legally_ginger** : i found his file

 **stevester** : this is such a good song, nat

 **stevester** : whose file?

Sent at 10:18 PM on Saturday

 **legally_ginger** : you can come get it, if you want.

 **legally_ginger** : or i’ll drop it off

***

“Be careful, Steve,” says Natasha, when he opens the front door. She hands him a worn manila folder. “You might not want to pull on that thread.”

Steve frowns and stops picking at his sort-of-unraveling pajamas. He takes the folder.

***

_Pause reading. Play: Black Sheep, Metric (reprise)._

**LEVEL THREE**

**In which Things Happen**

FILE: WINTER SOLO

[color image]

[black and white image]

[black and white image]

Birth name: James Buchanan “Bucky” “Winter Solo” Barnes

Born: 10 March 1997 (age 17) Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A.

Genres: Alternative rock, post-upper-east-Soweto, Alt-indie-teen

Occupations: Musician, singer-songwriter, multi-instrumentalist,

Instruments: Vocals, percussion, piano, keyboards, organ, harmonica, mandolin, glockenspiel

Years active: 2011–present

Labels: Hydra

Associated acts: Winter’s Army

Website: www.wintersolo.com, www.wintersarmymusic.com

“This is literally a Wikipedia page,” says Steve disbelievingly, flipping through the sheets of printer paper. “This is _printer paper_.”

The first page of the file is, in fact, literally a Wikipedia page. It looks like some lazy, mediocre writer copied and pasted the info column of some musician’s Wikipedia page and just changed all the appropriate parts to apply to the Winter Solo, instead.

The rest of the file is, however, _much_ more interesting. It is also a lot less nicely-formatted, though, and it so happens that it actually makes like zero sense. There’s glossy printed photographs paper-clipped to crisp, typed pages, gobs of tape, ripped edges. It’s like a weird scrapbook. “ Trapped”, it says, directly below “Terminated”. Even below that, there’s a school photo of Bucky, maybe twelve or thirteen.

“ _Bucky_ ,” says Steve, in a hushed whisper. The next page, there’s – it’s –

***

 **legally_ginger** : so you read it

Sent at 2:34 AM on Sunday

 **stevester** : it’s.

 **stevester** : it was him

_legally_ginger is typing…_

**stevester** : he looked right at me and he didn’t even know me

Sent at 2:40 AM on Sunday

_legally_ginger is typing…_

_stevester is typing…_

**legally_ginger** : it’s not your fault, steve. u had

 **stevester** : whatever they did to him

 **legally_ginger** : nothing to do with it

 **stevester** : it’s my fault, nat

falconexcess was invited to the chat…

falconexcess joined the chat!

 **stevester** : it was him

_legally_ginger is typing…_

**falconexcess** : look, steve

 **falconexcess** : how is that even possible? that was like, four, five years ago?

 **falconexcess** : you said u were friends

 **legally_ginger** : he ditched you, remember?

 **stevester** : best

 **stevester** : best friends.

 **stevester** : he didn’t ditch me

**Note: it is recommended at this time that you begin listening to Ramona by Beck. Replace all occurrences of the word “Ramona” with the word “Bucky”.

 **stevester** : it was the summer before seventh grade

 **stevester** : i was going to the scientific school reserve, he was going to P.S. 107. it was never going to work

 **stevester** : he called me the day after school ended

 **stevester** : i didn’t answer

 **stevester** : i didn’t answer _any_ of his calls

_legally_ginger is typing…_

**stevester** : after that, i heard he moved away.

 **falconexcess** : moved away.

 **stevester** : and then i met peggy, and

 **stevester** : nvm bout that. But

_stevester is typing…_

_legally_ginger is typing…_

**stevester** : even when i had nothing, i had bucky.

_Chat ended._

***

Dear Steve Rogers,

So you were finally honest to your friends. Cheers! However, we will have to retain the approval for your application until you take some sort of action towards the, let’s say, _situation_ with James Barnes.

Anxiously awaiting further news!

– The Best Friendship Administration Club, Management

 

Sam,

Here’s your guitar. Sorry. Have you seen Steve? I’m worried about him.

– Nat

 

Nat,

why is there a _name tag_ on my guitar – don’t be _ridiculous_ –

– Sam

 

Sam,

I thought it was a better fit than, say, _Cool Natasha_.

– Nat

***

***

_Open new Word document?_

 

I Am Sad, I Am So Very, Very Sad

(A minor)

By Steven Grant Rogers, June 2010

The Pacific was born today, and I’ll tell you how

It kind of stretched between us

Slowly by slowly filled by my tears and

Your calls waiting on the answerin’ machine.

On the answerin’ machine

Oh, I miss you

And I miss you

But I’m not twenty-one (yet)

And I can’t consume alcohol

So I’ll have get drunk

On my sleep-addled thoughts

Instead –ead –ead

(I need you so much closer)

 

_Would you like to save your changes to “bucky.doc”?_

***

Steve’s bedroom is at the very left of the house, where the window faces the sun in the morning and the cherry tree in his backyard is totally accessible. This makes for easy entrance and exit, both by him and, in this case, Sam and Natasha.

“He was my best friend,” says Steve, sorrowfully. A single tear runs down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“We’ll find out what made him sell his soul and become a corporate slave,” says Sam. He plops down on the carpet and rests his head on the windowsill behind him. “For your sake.”

“And for his,” says Natasha, cross-legged on Steve’s bed. “We’ll save him, and his indie cred too.”

“It’s – I don’t know,” says Steve. “I guess I thought – huh, I don’t – _remember_ , fully, it’s –”

“That doesn’t make sense,” says Natasha, gently. “You just told us what happened. Remember? Different middle schools, and you didn’t answer his calls,” she makes a gesture with her hand, “and then it was, you know. Over.”

“Over,” repeats Steve. “The thing is. I haven’t, like – really thought about him? Since everything that’s happened lately. It’s like – I don’t know – Like he’s been dead. Like he was dead and I mourned him, and then I _forgot_ him –”

“That’s impossible,” says Sam. Nobody says anything.

***

EXT. ROAD TO HYDRA RECORDS, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, NIGHT

_ The screen is BLACK, and there is only SILENCE. Slowly, we begin to hear the sound of a ROARING ENGINE, most likely attached to a MOTORCYCLE.  _

_ FADE IN and slide the camera UP from the oily black road, to rest the shot on… a BICYCLE, aluminum, carefully spray-painted black, carrying three (3) passengers. The three passengers are STEVE ROGERS, SAM WILSON, and NATASHA ROMANOFF, who is last but definitely, forever and ever, not and never least. NATASHA is steering, SAM is sitting in the incredibly large basket hanging from the handlebars, and STEVE is sitting behind NATASHA, with his arms around her waist. He is holding on for DEAR LIFE. _

 

SAM 

(yelling, to be heard over the super wind resistance)

WHERE ARE WE GOING?

 

NATASHA

(squinting at the road)

You’ll find out when we get there.

 

It should be mentioned that the ROARING ENGINE we heard before was in fact the half-deck of PLAYING CARDS tucked into the spokes of the bicycle wheels.

 

STEVE

This is just like the time we went to Rumlow’s house, remember?

For that party freshman year?

 

SAM

I’m pretty sure that never happe ned –

 

SAM is cut off by a SUDDEN HALT OF ALL MOVEMENT. NATASHA has totally SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES.

 

NATASHA

We’re here.

 

INT. HYDRA RECORDS HEADQUARTERS, EXTREMELY UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, NIGHT

 

SECRETARY

What are you kids doing here this time of night?

 

NATASHA

Hi. We have an appointment, with -

 

NATASHA flips through a packet of papers and pretends to examine them.

 

– Mr. Pierce?

 

SECRETARY

Alex Pierce?

 

NATASHA

 

SECRETARY

Why?

 

NATASHA

Oh, I thought he’d tell you – You know, it’s just business. Business stuff. _Numbers_.

 

NATASHA makes VAGUE GESTURES with her HANDS.

 

SECRETARY

Riiight. How old are you again?

 

NATASHA

I’m sorry – Did I? I’m six… teen. Okay. Sorry. I’m just so – nervous, y’know? I’m sixteen and a half, yeah. We’re here for – a sample, of our sound, and I just really –

 

SECRETARY

(putting magazine down)

Oh yeah? A sample?

 

NATASHA

– I’m just so _nervous_ , y’know. I really want him to _like_ us. I just want to be _liked_ , y’know.

 

SECRETARY

Yeah.</span>

 

NATASHA

(hand on chest)

Winter’s Army? _Genius_.

 

SECRETARY

We did such a good job with them.

 

NATASHA

Yeah, I know. You guys are amazing, and, oh, god – I’m going to be late, but I just wanted to tell you? That the things you do -

(quietly)

We just want that, y’know.

 

SECRETARY

(kindly)

Hallway on the left, past that bank of elevators, then up the stairs. Good luck.

 

NATASHA

Thank you _so much_.

 

INT. HYDRA RECORDS HEADQUARTERS, UPSTAIRS, CLUB LEVEL, NIGHT

…a low thrum of MUSIC, slants of blue light coming from the ceiling, roving the room from side to side, square, chrome stages set up in the corners of the room, a right-angled walkway lit up by inset tea lights… We ZOOM IN on an OLD WHITE MAN, sitting, a cup of herbal soy latte in one hand, the power to destroy any musical career in the other. He has probably the DOUCHIEST HAIRCUT EVER…

NATASHA and her two BAND MEMBERS enter the room.

 

NATASHA

Alright, fellas. Split up. We’re looking for a fossil.

 

Sam

Who?

NATASHA

You read the file, right?

 

SAM

I skimmed it.

 

NATASHA

Alexander Pierce, shortened to Alex Pierce for street cred. Hydra Records producer, executive, indie whatever.

(BEAT)

Ready?

 

It turns out they have nothing to look for. ALEX PIERCE/OLD WHITE MAN/FOSSIL is sitting lazily on a blocky THRONE on the uppermost TIER of a pyramid-shaped STAIRCASE CONTRAPTION in the center of the club, chewing on something and pointedly not sipping his HERBAL SOY LATTE. He has a STAFF in his left hand.

 

ALEX PIERCE

(clucking his tongue)

Oh, how awkward. I’m _so_ sorry I didn’t invite you myself – this is my club, of course, and I’d _just_ love to hear your sound, but I’m so _busy_ with everything that’s going on right now –

 

NOTE: Alexander Pierce has nothing going on right now.

 

STEVE

Wait. Alexander Pierce… Is A-man? Indie record producer of the millennium?

 

NATASHA

Yep.

 

SAM

(under his breath)

We are _so_ not going to land that record deal.

(not under his breath)

We’re not here to show you our sound, Mr. Pierce.

 

ALEX PIERCE

Yeah, mmhm, whatever. Someone get these kids some _drinks_. Rogers – water, am I right?

 

An IRRELEVANT SERVER comes up with a serving platter. On it is a single CUT-CRYSTAL GLASS, filled with ice. There is a PITCHER OF WATER beside it.

STEVE knocks the platter out of the server’s hands, profusely apologizes, picks the platter up and raises it as a SHIELD.

 

STEVE

We’re not here to drink, A-man. We’re here to fight you. For the freedom of the Winter Solo. Or should I say –

 

ALEX PIERCE

You can stop right there, sweetheart. Real names are so _yesterday_.

 

STEVE

Yeah?

 

He wipes the sweat dripping from his brow.

 

Well yesterday is the past. And the past affects the present! Which is today!

 

NATASHA and SAM look on

 

ALEX PIERCE

Wait a second. You want to fight _me_ …

 

ALEX PIERCE stands up and hops down one step on the staircase, both hands resting on his staff. He does not stop chewing whatever it is he’s chewing, because he’s a real DOUCHE of an old guy.

ALEX PIERCE

…For _him_?

 

STEVE

(angry. confused.)

Was that not clear?

(BEAT)

(quieter, addressed to NATASHA)

Was that not clear?

 

NATASHA

(shrugs)

 

ALEX PIERCE

_Why_?

 

STEVE

(passionately)

Because he was my friend, and there was no _closure_ to our _relationship_ , so he IS my friend still!

 

ALEX PIERCE

(scoffs)

Bad move, kid.

 

ALEX PIERCE takes out a SHINY RECTANGULAR BLOCK.

**In which there is One Final Battle**

It turns out that the SHINY RECTANGULAR BLOCK Alex Pierce whips out is in fact not a shiny rectangular block but a CHROME REMOTE CONTROL, with brushed metal casing and velvety, tactile buttons. He presses one of them, and the cool blue spotlights sweeping from side to side turn RED.

“Steve _Ro_ gers,” he sneers, dropping the remote. “Wait a _se_ cond. I’m just going to close my eyes, for better concentration, here we go –” he closes his eyes.

Steve also closes his eyes, because there’s suddenly – dust, everywhere, and – smoke, and then he’s hacking, because of the asthma he hasn’t quite grown out of.

“Wait – a second – before you –”

And he falls. To the ground.

**INSTANT OBITUARY.ORG/SORT-OF-HEROIC-DEATHS**

**Steve Rogers – Dead, 12:58 PM.**

“God,” says Natasha, heatedly, “You can’t just _give a warning_ before you fill the room with _smoke_? That’s. So. Irre _spon_ sible.” She spits out the last word. Alex Pierce looks totally sheepish. He descends the staircase, kind of bobs around Steve’s fallen body awkwardly for a little, pats him on the arm.

“It was for dramatic effect,” he sneers, straightening up, eyes glinting. The sheepish look falls off his face. “And _I don’t care_.”

“Oh, my God!” shouts Sam. “He’s evil!”

***

**WE INTERRUPT TO BRING YOU A FLASHBACK…**

_The second thing about the Patriot Rogue is that it’s ridiculously well-performing at battle of the bands competitions, considering the, um, lack of talent, and also the near comatose state Steve always goes into fifteen minutes before getting on stage, without fail._

_“Hey,” says Sam, wiping off some sweat on his guitar strap (ineffective). “We totally kicked it in there.”_

_“We totally did,” agrees Steve, who looks like he’s having trouble walking. He leans momentarily on Natasha for support. “We toootally did.”_

_They maneuver their way around the piles of coins left behind by the Going Commandos, who grumbled, congratulated, emptied their pockets, and left._

_“Hey,” says Steve, picking up something vaguely coin-shaped. “This is vaguely coin-shaped, but it isn’t a coin.”_

_“That’s because it isn’t,” says Natasha, who isn’t looking but is super-knowledgeable. “It’s a 1-up.”_

_“A 1-up,” says Steve in wonderment, carefully putting it in his breast pocket. There’s a soft heroic sound effect. “That might come in handy later.”_

***

**In which there is Two Final Battle**

It turns out that the object Alex Pierce whipped out was in fact not a block but a CHROME REMOTE CONTROL, with brushed metal casing and velvety, tactile buttons. He presses one of them, and the cool blue spotlights sweeping from side to side go red.

“Steve _Ro_ gers,” he sneers, dropping the remote. “Wait a _se_ cond. I’m just going to close my eyes, for better concentration, here we go –” he closes his eyes.

“One,” says Sam, “Shut the hell up. Two,” yells Sam, “ _Don’t you dare fill the room with smoke!_ ”

The room does not fill with smoke.

The room does fill, however, with the sudden presence of the Winter Solo.

“ ,” says the Winter Solo. “ .”

“Please, don’t attack,” says Steve, quiet but firm. “You’re my _friend_.”

“Your band is a THREAT!” yells the Winter Solo, rushing forward with his arms back in a sort of Naruto run. He brings out a METAL GUITAR.

“I’M NOT GOING TO HURT YOU,” yells Steve, staying where he is. He drops the serving platter he was using as a shield. There is no symbolic impact, however, as there were no emotional ties attached to the platter. We are alright, and also not on a helicarrier. There are no brainwashed Russian assassins, and this isn’t a terrorist organization. This is the club level of the Hydra Records Headquarters.

What were you even _thinking_.

“YOUR. BAND. IS. A. THREAT,” says Bucky, through his teeth. He ceases rushing and stops right in front of Steve. Alex Pierce takes a loud slurp of his herbal soy whatever.

“He’s quite right, you know,” says Alex Pierce. “Your sound. It’s so – like. Your indie cred is off the charts. Like, _so_ off from the charts. Nobody _on_ the charts has ever heard a _note_ of your music.”

“What are you saying?” asks Natasha, eyebrows scrunched. “What. Are. You saying.”

“What I’m _saying_ ,” says Alex Pierce, taking another slurp of his drink, “is that you’re _talented_. I love the Patriot Rogues. I could... Use them. For Hydra. They’re real… hero types. Real... How do you say it? _Up-and-comers_.”

“Well, you’re about to be up and CAME!” yells Sam, appearing and punching him in the jaw. “Save it. You’re pretentious, your club sucks, and our band name is **singular**. Let’s _do_ this.”

“Solo,” says Alex Pierce, airily. “Are you ready?”

“Ready, sir,” says the Winter Solo.

**AND THEN…**

Natasha pops up behind Alexander Pierce and passes a fold of damp cotton under his nose. His eyes roll back and he slumps to the ground, but not before slurring something like:

“You made me swallow my GUM! It’s going to be in my digeshtive tracksht for seven YEARS…” (so that’s what he was chewing. He was chewing gum this entire time? What a dick.)

“We are the PATRIOT ROGUE,” Natasha says, twiddling two drumsticks with her fingers, "and we're getting out of here."

“Okay,” says Steve, not breaking his intense stare at Bucky, who is breathing hard in front of him. Natasha (eyes also rolling, but not in an about-to-be-unconscious way like Alex Pierce) walks over and passes the same fold of damp cotton under Bucky’s nose. He also slumps to the ground, but unlike Alex Pierce is picked up and held in the arms of Steve Rogers.

Sam opens the door for them on the way out.

“Thank you,” says Steve.

***

MUSIC: RAMONA, BECK (AGAIN)

EXT. ALLEYWAY, OUTSIDE HYDRA RECORDS HEADQUARTERS, LATE NIGHT

When Bucky finally wakes up, the base of his head is throbbing.

“What the _hell_ –” he spits, his dry lips cracking a little more from opening his mouth. “Who _are_ you –”

“Hey,” says the tall kid sitting beside him. “You’re awake.”

“I am,” says Bucky. “Where’s Pierce? I can’t – Where is he.”

“Out of our hair, for now,” says a redhead in black clothing. She’s standing, leaning on the wall across from them with crossed arms.

“Why are you so loyal to him?” asks the tall kid, curiously, a deep trench appearing. “I mean. He blackmailed you, helped hone your already incredible drum talent, gave you a metal arm… Oh.”

Bucky stares at him. “He has a way of getting in my head.”

“Getting in your head,” says the tall kid, disbelievingly.

Bucky sighs and lifts the long, greasy hair covering the nape of his neck.

“Here,” he says, showing the tall kid the soft, peach-fuzzy skin there. There’s a flashing chip attached.

“It’s a door,” says Bucky. “He literally has a way of _getting in my head_. And the metal arm? That wasn’t my choice. Prosthetics are expensive, kid. He offered. And after the accident the summer before seventh grade? Well, I kind of needed it.”

“Oh,” says the tall kid. “That wasn’t in the file.”

“File – what file.”

“Yeah,” says the tall kid. “It said they – Hydra Records. It said they kind of. Um. Caused the accident, to break your arm and all.”

“ _To break my arm and all_?” repeats Bucky, loudly. “Why would they want to _break my arm_.”

“What he means,” says the redhead, speaking up, “is that Hydra Records orchestrated the car accident so that they could step in, give you the arm, and basically have you obligated to do their bidding. The contract, Bucky. Soul-sucking contracts are their specialty. How much money did the Winter’s Army debut bring in?”

“It’s a gold record, so far,” says Bucky. “Still rising up the alternative charts. Rave reviews. Pitchfork, Rolling Stone…”

“Exactly,” says the redhead, settling back against the wall again. “Exactly. Hydra has an iron grip on all their clients, so to speak. You’re not so much _signed_ as _owned_.”

“I don’t – what,” says Bucky, bewildered. “Who _are_ you?”

“We were best friends, Buck,” says the tall kid, rubbing at his hair. “Natasha said – she said Hydra has a way of changing your memories around.”

“Steve has a door too,” says the kid in a winged hoodie, who hasn’t talked before now. “Like yours, on the back of your head. We found it yesterday. Alex Pierce’s been shifting around your memories – like, I don’t know. Like they’re his or something. Adding stuff for fun, taking out what he doesn’t like.”

“It’s why I don’t remember how we – ended things,” says the tall kid (Steve?) “Between us, I mean. D’you remember? All those times in the alleyways.”

Bucky looks around. They’re in an alleyway right now: crates, gray stone, thick clouds overhead. There’s a bit of a drizzle starting up.

“We were friends,” the tall kid continues. “We always – had each other. It’s like. We never knew what we were getting into, but I always – you were always there, and – I’m with you. ‘Til the end of the line. I’ll be with you until we figure this out, and then we can – start things, again –”

Bucky closes his eyes and swallows.

“How can I trust you,” he wants to say, but what he says instead is “It’s going to rain.”

“Yeah,” says the redhead, softly. “It’s going to be big. I can feel it.”

“I think,” Bucky says, swallowing, clenching and unclenching his metal hand over and over again. “I think I need some time to figure it out.”

Natasha looks up to see him making him way down the street, away from them. He’s shivering a little.

“What are you doing?” asks Natasha, tilting her head at Steve. “Go after him.”

“I don’t know if he wants me to,” says Steve.

“Do you?” asks Natasha. “Do you want to? Follow him, I mean.”

“I think I do,” says Steve.

Natasha tilts her head, this time at Bucky, who’s walking away, blurring a little at the edges in the rain. Steve stands up and looks at his two friends, water starting to drip from the ends of Natasha’s hair, Sam giving him a half-smile.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, slowly.

***

**In which we come to a Conclusion**

We hear FOOTSTEPS, getting closer.

 

STEVE

Hey, mind if I tag along?

 

BUCKY is a little surprised to see a cheery STEVE walking alongside him.

 

BUCKY

(incredulously, but also… resigned.)

You want to come with me.

 

STEVE's mouth curves up a bit at the edges. He shrugs slightly.

 

STEVE

I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, jerk.

 

BUCKY allows a small smile. He holds out his hand. STEVE takes it. We see a door in the middle of the damp, shining street, light hitting the RED STAR in the center. As things get brighter, we realize it is a SILVER STAR, and it just looked kind of red through all the darkness and rain. STEVE and BUCKY walk towards it, the sun rising over the city, rain disappearing, warm light making them look kind of like a vision or a dream or a secret, maybe.

STEVE and BUCKY open the door and step inside. It swings shut behind them. We tilt up to the sky, through the clouds, up to the heavens, to reveal…

 

** CONTINUE? **

** 10… **

** 9… **

** 8… **

** 7… **

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- a couple of years later, when pepper’s in college, she learns that muted lipsticks suit her better and also that she’s kind of maybe a tiny bit in love with tony. they continue to deny that even after they're married
> 
> \- steve could’ve made his IM screen name rogersthat, but he’s a big nerd
> 
> \- the opening quote has nothing to do with the story. i just like it
> 
> \- natasha changes her screen name like twice a week. says it’s for security. says she needs new covers to feel safe
> 
> \- steve and bucky end up with kind of a happy ending.
> 
> \- [winter solo.](http://momentofmemory.tumblr.com/post/82343175225/hes-fast-strong-with-a-metal-guitar-part)
> 
> \- i listened to ramona by beck a LOT while writing this. hence
> 
> \- there are so many STYLISTIC CHANGES i could have made if i was better with css and html, but alas, i am bad at all sorts of computer stuff and this fic is not as pretty as it could be.
> 
> \- i did in fact first post this at five am, but then i had this kind of weird time where i deleted it and now i'm posting it again, i guess.
> 
> ppprptts on tumblr.


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